Wild Horses
by RhiannonWrites
Summary: Catherine took Sara out for a beer at the end of "Crash and Burn." Then what? Not what you're thinking, boys and girls. GSR, because I live for it. Rated T for language and suggested sexual behavior.


Author's Note: This story picks up immediately after the season three episode "Crash and Burn", and is named for the song that plays at the end of that episode. It contains potential spoilers for "Crash and Burn" and "Lady Heather's Box", and I believe it helps provide a theoretical context for Sara's abrupt decision to ask Grissom out in "Play With Fire." (She does so after the lab explosion, it's true; but the implication is that she is following him down the halls of the lab to do so _before_ the explosion occurs. I mean, something had to inspire that, right?) I highly recommend listening to The Sundays' version of "Wild Horses" while reading this story; I listened to it while writing, and it was certainly emotional inspiration.

Disclaimer: Sara, Grissom, et. al. still belong to Zuicker and CBS. But when they crawl inside my head and begin screaming or wildly making out, how can I deny them?

_Wild Horses_

"You want to get a beer?" Catherine's face was carefully casual. Sara was not fooled by the other woman's attempt at nonchalance, but she appreciated it. Still, she hesitated for a moment. She and Catherine had a good working relationship, but they never spent time together outside of the lab. Catherine had her daughter, and Sara had her police scanner…and more recently, she had had Hank. Maybe not a boyfriend, maybe not a serious relationship, but a pleasant weekend distraction when she ran out of overtime for the month at work. But now—

Just the thought of being alone at home staring at the walls made up her mind. "Drive," she said, just a little fiercely, to hide the thickness of unshed tears in her voice. Catherine shifted into gear and started off without another word.

They drove to a neighborhood Sara did not recognize, the older woman's native knowledge of Las Vegas trumping Sara's two and a half years of experience. Catherine pulled the SUV to a halt outside a small bar called Felicity's, casting Sara a faint smile.

"I used to come here after particularly bad nights at the clubs," she offered, alluding to her younger days as an exotic dancer. "It's a girls-only bar—not a lesbian bar, mind you, but just one that caters to female patrons. It's surprisingly nice. I think it's the atmosphere of safety that makes it easier to relax." She smiled tentatively. "You just seemed like you might need a guy-free zone tonight, and almost any other bar in Vegas would ensure us being hit on by every scumbag looking to score _off_ the slots."

Sara nodded slowly. "Yeah. This is fine." She could not quite hide the sheen of tears in her eyes, so she avoided eye contact, slipping out her door and onto the sidewalk.

Inside, the walls were a pretty shade of burgundy, with chairs, tables, and a bar all in ebony wood. Delicate chandeliers and rope lighting provided a nicely lit ambience, and there were pictures dotting the walls of famous actresses and female authors. Catherine slid onto a stool at the bar comfortably, smiling at the young dark-haired bartender with familiarity. "Hi, Janine."

"Cath! Great to see you again, honey. What'll it be?"

"I'll take a beer, the best you have on tap," Catherine replied as she hung her coat over the back of the bar stool.

"And for your friend?"

Catherine tossed Sara a questioning look, and Sara smiled wanly. "Uh, same."

As Janine moved away to fill their glasses, Catherine touched Sara's shoulder lightly. "You want to talk about it?"

Sara shook her head. "Nope."

Catherine nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

Janine set the mugs of frothy beer in front of them and discreetly pocketed the bills Catherine slid across the bar to her. "Let me know if you need anything else, ladies."

"Thanks, Janine," Catherine said with another friendly smile.

The two women drank in silence for a good ten minutes before Catherine spoke again. "Listen, I'm sorry about the way I reacted when you were on Eddie's case. I just—man, I hated that bitch he was seeing. The way she talked about Lindsey…and just abandoning her in the car like that…"

"You wanted her to be the one who shot him. You wanted her to be punished."

Catherine nodded. "Yeah. Something like that. And not just for Lindsey."

Sara studied her beer closely. "You wanted to punish her for taking _him_ away from you, too."

Catherine cocked her head. "A little, I guess. Are we still talking about me?"

A tear slid down Sara's face. "Elaine is his girlfriend."

Catherine set down her mug. "Oh."

"There was a picture, on her coffee table, of the two of them. They looked so happy…" Sara sniffed, furiously wiping away the tear that had settled on her jaw. "I just don't understand how I didn't see it."

Catherine pressed her lips together and shook her head. "Sometimes we don't see it." She shrugged carelessly. "Maybe we don't want to. Eddie cheated on me more times than I care to think about, and I think I stayed blind to it for a long time because I didn't want to lose him."

Sara's face grew bitter. "That's the funny thing. I guess technically, he was cheating on her with me. I was the other woman." She took a long drink of her beer, wiping the foam from her lips with the back of her hand. "I always figured that we saw so little of each other because of our jobs. I mean, we're both on call, all the time, working life or death situations—I never dreamed that we'd only go out to a movie once a month or for a quick coffee before work because he was with someone else."

Catherine laid a hand over Sara's. "I'm really sorry, Sara. I know how much he meant to you."

"No, you don't," Sara said, pulling her hand away. "He didn't mean anything."

"That's why you're crying and drinking with me?"

Sara set down her mug with a thud. "You know, it was your idea."

Catherine raised her hands in a defeated gesture. "Hey, you're right. It was. And I don't know what he meant to you. I don't know you at all. But I'm trying, okay? I'm trying to be your friend."

"This never would have happened if it weren't for Grissom," Sara said abruptly, signaling Janine over. Catherine's jaw dropped.

"Grissom? What did he do?"

Sara's lips twisted in a parody of a grin. "Oh, you know. He's Grissom."

"No, I don't know," Catherine began, but Janine stepped over at that moment.

"Need a refill?"

"Actually, I need a bourbon on the rocks, double," Sara said, and Catherine's eyes widened.

"Sara, are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I'm off work," Sara said shortly. "I'm an adult. I can do what I want."

Catherine shrugged. "Okay."

Janine slid a tumbler half-full of amber liquid across the bar, ice clinking in the glass. Sara lifted it and downed half in a single gulp. With a sigh, Catherine nodded at Janine, and a second tumbler quickly joined the first. Catherine sipped hers more slowly, however, wanting at least one of them to be able to drive when it was time to head home.

"So, you want to tell me what you meant about Grissom?" Catherine said after a moment. Sara took a smaller, slower drink of her glass and set it down on the bar, her lips pursed.

"It's hard to explain, Catherine. Maybe you know Grissom—I know you two have been friends for years—but like you said, you don't really know me. I don't think you'll understand."

"I understand what it's like to be a woman who's in love with someone who doesn't love her back," Catherine said quietly. Sara's eyes shot up, wide, searching Catherine's face.

"Who said anything about love?" she snapped, but her voice was low, and the slightest tremble brushed her lower lip. The older CSI's eyes did not miss the small movement, and her face grew sympathetic.

"Sara, how long have you known Grissom?"

"Oh, years," Sara said thickly, swallowing the rest of her drink. "He, uh—he taught a seminar in San Francisco, while I was a grad student there. It was fascinating."

"Is that when you two became friends?"

"Friends?" Sara asked, her brown eyes darkening. "Who said we were friends?"

"Uh, Grissom did," Catherine said hesitantly. "When you first arrived, looking into Warrick and the Holly Gribbs case. He said he was bringing in a friend of his from San Francisco."

"Hmm," Sara said, but she would not meet Catherine's eyes again as she signaled for a third drink. Janine refilled her bourbon glass with caution, casting a glance at Catherine as if silently asking for permission. Catherine shrugged and shook her head when Janine made a move to refill her tumbler as well. The pretty bartender moved away, and Catherine moved in for the kill.

"What's the story, Sara? What's the deal with you and Gil? I remember when you first came here, he was happy. He seemed excited to see you. And once you started fitting in with the team, you seemed happy too. Now everything is awkward, and both of you look like you hardly get any sleep. I chalked it up to you and the boyfriend, and Gil being Gil. But this is more than that, isn't it?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Sara said softly, but Catherine shook her head.

"I think we're past secrets, Sara. I'm not here to judge you, or him, or to run to Ecklie or Mobley or anyone else about whatever is going on. I just think that as his friend, as your coworker, I should know."

"Well, you're wrong," Sara snapped, gulping some of her drink. The reddish-gold liquid splashed onto the front of her shirt, and she wiped at it furiously. "Dammit, Catherine, why don't you just ask him? Huh? He's your friend. Maybe he'll open up to you. And hey, did you ever consider that maybe your history with him is more interesting and personal than mine?"

"Oh, please," Catherine sneered. Her face betrayed her frustration. "You think that he's ever looked at me that way? Grissom is my coworker, and my friend, and my boss. You're as bad as Eddie, assuming that there's ever been more."

"I don't care!" Sara cried, and she was nearly yelling. Janine's head flew up, and she started towards the two women, but Catherine held up a hand, staying her.

"Keep your voice down, Sara."

"No! I'm done with this interrogation. Thanks for the drinks." The younger woman rose with a toss of her dark hair and strode from the bar.

With a sigh, Catherine laid down a few bills and smiled ruefully at Janine. "She's going through a rough time."

"Yeah," Janine said quietly, pocketing the money. "Good luck with that handful."

Catherine slipped out the door of Felicity's, her eyes sweeping the parking lot for signs of Sara. The SUV was still parked outside the bar, but the tall CSI was nowhere to be seen. With another heavy sigh, Catherine got into her vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot, hoping Sara had had the sense to hail a cab.

* * *

An hour later, she was in Grissom's apartment, sipping at a mug of coffee while he poured himself his own. Grissom's eyes were wary as he sat beside her on the small brown leather couch. "So, what's going on, Catherine?"

"It's Sara," Catherine said without preamble. "What the hell is going on with you two?"

Grissom took a slow drink before answering just as slowly. "Nothing's going on. Why?"

"She's freaking out," Catherine said in her usual no-hold-barred way. She gave her old friend a sideways look. "Turns out the guy she was seeing had another girlfriend. Long-term, by the sounds of it. Sara was apparently just a little fun on the side for this guy. She's really broken up, but she doesn't want to talk about it. And apparently, the whole thing is somehow your fault."

She watched Grissom clench his jaw, but he said nothing as he took another sip of his coffee. Catherine set her mug down with a thud. "Wow, the two of you are just perfect for each other, aren't you? Close-lipped, secretive—you never give anything away."

"I'm sorry Hank turned out to be…someone other than who Sara apparently thought he was," Grissom said carefully. "Is there something else I should say?"

"Are you in love with her?"

Grissom tilted his head, his blue eyes going slightly wide. "Uh—no."

"Well, she's in love with you, Gil," Catherine said bluntly. Grissom turned his head away and studied the far wall. Catherine shifted forward and laid a gentle hand on his knee, bringing his eyes back to her face. "Just tell me what's going on, okay? She won't. How did you meet? How long have you known her? Did something happen, before she came here? What's going on with you two?"

Grissom shook his head, wetting his lips. "There's no story here, Catherine. We met at a seminar. I taught, she learned. She asked some insightful questions, some of which I couldn't answer, so I gave her my number here in Vegas." He shrugged. "We talked a few times. I asked her to come here when the Holly Gribbs debacle occurred, and after it was finished, she decided to stay."

"Please," Catherine said. "What are you leaving out?"

"Nothing," Grissom said, his face growing frustrated. "Would you please drop this, Catherine? You're looking for something that isn't there."

"No?" the attractive blonde asked. "She said things with Hank would never have happened if it weren't for you. She wouldn't explain what that meant. You want to tell me?"

"I have no idea," Grissom said simply. "Let it go, Cath."

Catherine shook her head, lips pursed in a wry half-smile. "It can't be that bad, Gil. What, did you sleep with her in San Francisco? Did you go on a couple of dates when she was investigating Warrick, only to have to drop it when you became her boss? There's something there. What _happened_?"

The sudden thudding of fists against wood startled them both, and two sets of blue eyes flew to the front door. Grissom stood, crossing the room in a few quick paces and peering through the peephole. He turned back, his face a little pale. "Uh, it's Sara."

Catherine tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "You should probably know—I'm pretty sure she's drunk."

"Great," Grissom snapped, running a hand through his graying hair. "Just what I need—two belligerent women in my home at the same time."

Catherine rose, deciding not to take offense. "I'll go. Maybe it's not me you need to be talking to."

As Grissom pulled open the door, Catherine slipped past him and an astonished Sara out into the hall, giving neither the chance to say anything before she disappeared down the stairs. Grissom turned his tight gaze onto Sara, inhaling sharply and releasing his breath in a sigh. "What's going on, Sara?"

"What did you tell her?" Sara asked. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glistened. "She couldn't get answers out of me, so she came running to you?"

"I didn't tell her anything," Grissom said quietly. "She had a lot to say."

"I suppose she told you about Hank," Sara said, sniffing. Grissom nodded.

"Yeah, she did. I'm sorry."

Sara nodded. "Right. You're sorry."

"Come inside," he said, reaching for her shoulder. Sara jerked back.

"No, thanks." She turned to stride down the hall, but Grissom caught her upper arm.

"Sara, come on. Catherine told me you've been drinking."

"So I'll take a cab," she said shortly, not turning around.

"Just have a cup of coffee," Grissom offered, and Sara finally turned.

"Don't pretend you care now, Grissom," she said bitterly, and he winced ever so slightly. Her chin trembled with the effort to hold back tears. "You found out I was seeing Hank, and you didn't even care."

He cocked his head and looked at her in confusion. "What did you want me to say, Sara?"

"Nothing," she retorted. "Absolutely nothing."

He used his grip on her arm to gently tug her into the apartment, which she allowed him to do with little resistance. Closing the door behind them, he moved to the kitchen and poured another mug of coffee. He offered it to her, and she took it slowly, her dark eyes glued to his. Then, with a twist of her lips, she opened her fingers and let the hot liquid and ceramic crash to the floor, shattering the cup and spraying the coffee across the tile.

Grissom said nothing. His eyes never even left her face.

"I'm sorry about Hank, Sara."

A tear slid down her cheek, but whether it was angry or grief-stricken, he could not tell. Her eyes were burning. "I'm sorry about Heather."

He stepped back then, looking a little like he had been struck. "Excuse me?"

"I was standing beside Brass when you called. He keeps his cell phone volume up really high. Did you know that sometimes you can hear both sides of a conversation, standing close to someone like that, while they're on the phone?"

Grissom's eyes tightened as Sara's chin came up, a little defiant. "You told him you were already there. It was 8 am."

"What's your point, Sara?" A hint of heat was rising in his voice, and Sara crossed her arms over her chest.

"You were there all night."

"And if I was?"

Her smile was wound so tightly that she looked ready to snap. "Nothing. Just wanted to extend my condolences. Can't imagine she wants to tie you up again after you accused her of murder."

"Who says she tied _me_ up?" His voice was deceptively soft, razor sharp. Sara flinched, and another tear slid down her cheek.

"God, I hate you," she spat out. His expression never changed. "Nothing means anything to you, does it?"

"You mean something to me." Still soft, but the sharpness had gone out of his tone.

"Liar." She raised a foot, set it down in the mixture of broken mug and coffee on the floor. The soft sole of her sneaker ground into it, crushing the ceramic, until she pulled her foot back with a soft cry as a piece went through the rubber. Grissom's eyes darted to her foot, and he quickly crouched down and reached for her ankle.

"You're bleeding."

"Don't touch me," she hissed, backing up, limping slightly.

He rose to his feet, his expression weary. "Fine, Sara. Bleed all over my floor."

"Don't worry, I'm leaving."

"If that's what you want."

She limped forward, dark eyes roaming over his face, then down, more slowly, over his neck, shoulders, chest, waist, legs, taking in the worn blue jeans and black tee shirt he was wearing. He could feel heat rising in his skin with every downward slip of her gaze. When she spoke, her voice was so quiet he could hardly hear her. "I can't have what I want."

Grissom's heart thudded against his chest. Dangerous territory—the line he had been walking ever since Sara had come to Vegas. He dodged the statement. "At least let me give you a bandage for your foot."

She shook her head, glossy dark hair brushing against her cheeks. "No."

"Why are you so angry?" he asked, leaning back against the counter. Her face betrayed her surprise at his question.

"Uh—I found out today that the guy I'm seeing is in a relationship with someone else. Is it strange to you that I'm upset?"

"No. But that's not why you're angry."

"Well, finding out that you fucked a dominatrix who was also a murder suspect doesn't help much."

Grissom kept his face impassive. "My personal life isn't any of your business."

"Yes, you've made that thoroughly clear."

"So that's why you're angry? Because I was intimate with a murder suspect? Because I was intimate with a dominatrix?" He stepped closer. "Or because I was intimate with another woman?"

"I don't care who you're with. I was just trying to be polite."

"Bullshit," he said hotly, and Sara's eyes widened at the curse. "You wanted to make sure I knew that you knew about Heather."

"Whatever," she responded, turning for the door. Grissom caught her arm once more.

"No, Sara. Let's do this, if we're going to do this. Let's finish it. No walls, no lies, just say what you want to say. I'll give you the decency of doing the same."

"Fine." The younger woman's cheeks were flaming. "I did want you to know. I am pissed off that you slept with her, and I don't know why."

"Catherine says you're in love with me."

The bluntness of the words made her wince. "I wouldn't say that."

"Then what, Sara? What are we dancing around, here?"

"I thought you liked me."

"I do like you."

"I mean back in San Francisco, when we met. When you were lecturing." She inhaled deeply. "I practically threw myself at you, and you didn't react."

"Is that why it took you two months to call me after I returned here?"

She nodded. "I wanted the answers to my questions, but there was one question I just couldn't ask you. I guess I'll ask you now." She let her arms fall to her sides. "Why am I not good enough for you?"

"You think that's the issue here?"

"If it's not, then what is?"

"I'm your supervisor."

Sara shook her head. "No. That's not it."

Grissom raised his eyebrows. "Really."

"Are you scared of me, Grissom?"

He swallowed. "Scared of you?"

"Yeah. Are you scared of me? Because I'm intense, emotional? Because I'm not a coldhearted bastard, like you? Because I'm younger?" Her voice broke on the next question. "Because you think I'm beautiful?"

His mind flashed back to his statement of a year before. _Since when are you interested in beauty?_

_Since I met you._

"I'm not scared of you, Sara."

She lowered her eyes to the floor. "I don't know what to think anymore."

"I don't either," he admitted, his voice heavy. "I can't do this right now, Sara."

"Yeah," she said slowly, wrapping her arms around her body again. "Me neither."

"So I'll see you tonight at work?"

She lifted her face. "My night off. I'll see you later."

He watched her limp to the door, watched the thin trail of blood trickle out along his tile floor. The door closed softly behind her, and he trudged into the living room, sinking down onto the couch.

* * *

Catherine reached into her locker, pulling out her dark red leather jacket. Beside her, the soft sound of footsteps attracted her attention, and she lifted her head.

"Hey, Sara."

The younger woman nodded. "Hey."

"How did things go the other day?" she asked cautiously. Sara turned dead eyes to her, and Catherine winced.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Her voice was flat.

"Right." Catherine closed her locker door. "Well, I'll see you later."

Sara said nothing, and with a shake of her head, Catherine strode out of the locker room. Heading down the hall purposefully, she walked into Grissom's office and closed the door behind her. The entomologist looked up at the sound, his face looking a little surprised.

"Hey, Catherine. What can I do for you?"

"What did you do?" Catherine asked, folding her arms over her chest. "Sara looks like someone pummeled her into a vegetative state, for Christ's sake. What happened after I left?"

Grissom's face closed off. "Let it go, Cath. There's nothing to talk about."

"God, you two are infuriating," Catherine seethed. She raked a hand through her blonde hair. "Just don't let it come into the lab, Gil. We all have enough to deal with without handling the backlash from whatever shit is happening between you and Sara."

"Do I ever bring my personal life to work?" Grissom asked mildly, and Catherine shrugged.

"What personal life?" she said acidly, and walked out.

Grissom watched her leave, and reached for the play button on the small stereo he kept on his desk. The soothing sounds of Pavarotti filled the blue-lit room, and he leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes drift close.

The sound of his office door closing again startled him awake, and he sat forward, rubbing his eyes. Sara stood before the desk, her thin body draped in a black silk shirt and black pants with a thin grey pinstripe. Her hair was softly curled, and a slight sheen of gloss covered her lips…and a sheen of tears, her eyes.

"You look so innocent when you sleep," she said softly.

Grissom cleared his throat. "Uh, Sara? Was there something you needed?"

"Yes," she whispered. She moved purposefully around the desk as he turned his chair slightly. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that his door was shut and all the blinds drawn. He returned his eyes to her face as she perched on the edge of the desk, long legs sliding into the space between his parted knees. She was not touching him, but he could feel the heat of her body. The glisten of unshed tears was still in her eyes. "You."

"Sara," he began, but she was leaning forward. Her long slender fingers removed his glasses, setting them gently down on his desk. She slipped to her knees in front of him, palms resting lightly on his thighs just above the knee. He observed absently that her hands were very pale against the black of his pants. Her dark eyes bored into his, and her faintly freckled skin luminesced in the warm halo of his desk lamp. Even on her knees, she was tall, and her face was about chest level. Almost against his will, his fingers went out to brush against her cheek, and she closed her eyes as she leaned into his hand. A soft sound escaped her lips, and the clenching of her eyelids let two glistening tears slide down her cheeks.

"I hate that you're hurting," he said softly, and meant it. Her eyes opened again.

"I've been hurting since the day you left San Francisco."

He swallowed, unsure of what to say to that. Her fingers tightened on his legs. "Please stop running away from me."

"I'm not running away from anything."

"Then why—"

"Get up, Sara," he said slowly. "I—this is my office. We're at work. Get up."

"No," she said thickly, and he grasped her arms.

"Go home. Get some sleep."

"No," she repeated, and she was crying now. He steeled himself.

"Now, Sara."

"You're not my father!" she hissed, and he flinched.

"No, I'm not," he said simply. "I'm your boss. Go home, Sara."

She stood up, her cheeks damp and flushed, her eyes burning holes in her lovely face. He had never seen anything more agonizing than Sara in pain. She leaned forward until her lips hovered just above his, until he could smell the sweetness of her breath and even, he fancied, the saltiness of her tears. Her eyes closed.

"I wish I could give up," she whispered, and lightly pressed her lips to his.

It was hardly a kiss, just a brushing of lips, so delicate and soft that he thought he might be imagining it. He let his own eyes close, fighting against the urge to lean into her, fighting against the urge to pull away. His hands clenched into fists, his body tightened, and he was immediately aroused and completely terrified.

All because her lips touched his.

And then she was gone, and he was alone in his office, staring blankly at the radiated fetal pig floating in its glass jar. The door was open, and people moved in the halls, oblivious. Grissom touched his fingers to his lips, shifted slightly in his chair.

Perhaps it had been a dream.

He smoothed his palms over his thighs, sighing, then stopped as his fingers touched something wet. He looked down. A single tear drop stained a circle on the black fabric, just above the knee.

So. Not a dream. He stood slowly, reaching for his glasses on the desktop and tucking them into the pocket of his shirt. Reaching for his coat, he shrugged it on and flicked the switch on his desk lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness.

* * *

FIN


End file.
